Unhappily Ever After
by Karashi
Summary: What if Hex and Charmcaster never appeared in the original series? What if they came in much later after the High Breed the attack? An alternate universe where the bad guys win.


**Disclaimers:** Ben 10, Ben 10: Alien Force and their respective characters belong to Man of Action.  
**Warnings:** Some violence and character deaths  
**Author's Notes:** An alternate universe fic where the Bad Guys win. What if Hex and Charmcaster never appeared in the original series and Gwen's magical aura or "anodite spark" was never awakened? This is not a complete retelling of the show but a lot of the concepts will be re-envisioned in this fic so please don't expect total canon-compliance. This will have nothing to do with Ultimate Alien, I have no intention of touching that series with a fifty foot pole.

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* * *

Unhappily Ever After**  
**Chapter One: The End**

They had him strapped down on a steel table. Thick, leather cuffs round nearly every part of his body save for his arms, which were raised sideways and held in position by mindless brutes. He grit his teeth, bracing himself for a barrage of questions he will never answer when he heard the rustle of a skirt and the steady gait of heavy boots.

A soft mocking chuckle, "Make a wish, boys." Then the brutes began a game of tug-of-war.

Skin ripped. Muscles tore. Bone snapped. Pain. Pain. Pain. He remembered to breathe but not before he remembered to scream. He writhed and thrashed, struggling uselessly at his bindings, unfeeling of the leather digging into his skin. Too preoccupied by the agony and the amount of blood pouring out of him to pay attention to the conversation going on above his head.

"Huh. The left arm gave way and not the right?"

"They can tear his right arm out too if it means _that_ much to you."

"Maybe next time. Someone has to staunch the bleeding."

"I'll leave it to you then. And shut him up, will you? He's giving me a headache."

A resigned sigh and darkness descended upon him.

* * *

He woke up to cold, clammy stone floors, to foul air that smelled of piss and decay unable to escape the lightless, windowless dungeon. He grimaced, shifting his body to tend to the gnawing ache in his shoulder. Except the metal chains coiled around his wrist and connected to the thick, alloy band clamped around his waist limited his movement, keeping him from clutching at the blood-caked bandages covering the stub where his arm used to be.

In the blackness, he was unable to make anything of his surroundings or the state of his health except for the steel cuffs around his neck and ankles. Again he shifted his body, heard the clink of chains and felt his movements tug at his waist.

Dizzy from blood loss and hunger (he doesn't know how long it's been since he last had something to eat), he nearly missed the faint groan of metal grating stone. A shaft of light peered into the dungeon from atop a flight of stone steps, and he squints before he bares his teeth in a defiant snarl at the sight of the brute shambling towards him.

A large, blocky hand grabbed him by the back of his metal collar and unceremoniously began to drag him up the steps. His grunts of pain went unheeded as he was yanked along, his wounds worsening from the rough treatment.

The sound of his bare heels scrabbling along the ground dulled to silence when rough stone smoothed out to polished marble. It was when his vision finally adjusted to the light did he notice the glass cases mounted on the hallway walls. He squinted, the slow gait of his escort allowing him enough time to study the contents of each case.

He broke into a cold sweat upon realizing what they were and found the strength to struggle against the hand that held him. His efforts were ineffectual, inconsequential as far as the brute was concerned, and _ignored_. His stomach turned in shame and disgust at his helplessness. He fought back a shudder when he saw the empty cases because he knew, _knew_ who they were meant for.

Memories of his comrades, his team, his friends, his _family_ surged through him too suddenly that his vision blurred from the furious tears welling in his eyes. A sob tore from his mouth because he couldn't look away, couldn't stop himself from recognizing the seemingly innocent objects displayed on the walls.

A piece of red and orange fabric.

A black, singed cloth belt.

A joystick from a remote control.

A gnarled, metal rod.

A chunk of teal-blue crystal.

A scrap of gold-glittering cashmere.

A handful of snapped quills.

He'd lost so much, _too_ much, more than anyone should ever in a lifetime, let alone in a span of a year. Unconsciously he clenched his fists, his resolve not wavering even a fraction as the pain shooting down his left side reminded him he no longer had his left arm.

Because he had to stay strong. He had to keep fighting. He couldn't afford to let them break him. There were too many people counting on him; there was just too much at stake. His eyes, still wet with standing tears, sharpened into focus. And they looked too old for the boyish features of his sixteen-year-old face.

He felt the brute stop, finding himself flat on his back when his escort released his hold to open heavy, towering double doors. Before he had a chance to sit up, he was airborne and came crashing down on polished obsidian floors with the clatter of chains and the skidding of skin, sliding a few feet before coming to a halt at the foot of an ornately carved throne.

"Now is that any way to treat a guest?" an amused voice chided.

He was helped off the floor and the blocky hands of the brute kept him on his knees. He snapped his head up so quickly it made his vision swim but he grit his teeth and forced himself to glare hatefully at the hooded masked man looming to his right.

"Everyone must pay their respects," the smooth voice behind the disguise explained, placing a gauntleted hand atop his head and turning his attention back towards the throne.

He squared his shoulder back defiantly when his gaze fell upon the white-haired woman lounging in her seat with an openly disinterested look on her face. Again his thoughts were filled with images of everyone he lost, of everything they sacrificed. Words, hateful and bitter, rose in his throat like bile and he opened his mouth.

* * *

Only to be cut off before he could even utter a sound by a beam of fuchsia burning a hole in his chest where his heart should have been.

The masked man turned to the woman, his head canted in disbelief. "That's _it_? That's how you kill the resistance movement's biggest symbol of hope?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Were you planning on making some big reveal, Dark Sun? Or should I say _Michael_?"

The young man named Michael pushed the hood back and removed his mask, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his handsome features as he ran his fingers through his blond hair. "Perhaps I was, perhaps I wasn't, you'll never know now. I just didn't think you'd kill him in such an anti-climactic manner," he flashed her perfect white teeth in a smile that did not quite reach his clear, blue eyes. "No offense meant, Lovely Charmcaster."

"None taken. I hardly expect you to understand the intricacies of my plan," she returned with a patronizing smile of her own, amethyst eyes glittering in affectionate mockery. She turned to the brute, pointed to the body it held, and instructed, "Put that thing in the crypt. I still have use for it."

Michael curled his lips in disgust but said nothing as the mindless mass of muscle dragged away the lifeless body that was once Benjamin Tennyson.

Charmcaster rose from her throne, motioning to her second-in-command to approach. "Come, let's go mount my latest trophy."

"Don't you mean _my_ trophy?" he narrowed his eyes dangerously at her, tucking his mask away before his hands became surrounded by an ominous, black aura.

"You belong to me, so anything of yours is mine," she laughed. A corner of her mouth raised in a smirk, her entire form aglow with fuchsia energy.

They held each other's glare for what seemed like an eternity, the air within the room crackling as they closed the distance between them with measured steps. He leaned forward suddenly, bowing at the waist, his eyes never leaving hers before he offered her his arm. She flipped her hair haughtily in consideration before bobbing in a half-curtsey to accept the proffered limb with one arm, while her other tore open a portal to pull out the taxidermied left hand that once had the Omnitrix attached to it.

"Our arrangement will eventually be in my favor, Lovely." It was less of a warning and more of a promise.

"I highly doubt that, Darkles." And that too was less of a warning and more of a promise.


End file.
